


nothing but missing you

by witching



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Apologies, Historical, Letters from Heaven, M/M, Miscommunication, Religious Conflict, Reunions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-14
Updated: 2019-04-14
Packaged: 2020-01-12 23:59:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,664
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18457292
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/witching/pseuds/witching
Summary: "It’s been seventy years of painful guilt and profound loneliness for Aziraphale, but he can’t help wondering whether it hasn’t been better, for Crowley. Better without Aziraphale around, thwarting his wiles, blaming him for everything that goes wrong, shooting him disapproving glares at every opportunity. Perhaps Crowley walks about whistling a cheery tune every time he thinks of that day; perhaps he doesn’t regret it at all, while Aziraphale regrets it more than anything."





	nothing but missing you

**Author's Note:**

> the prompt was a/c, a kiss as an apology. i do believe i Went Off, as the kids say.  
> title from taylor swift's "back to december" i'm still gay don't @ me

It’s sweltering hot, and it’s pouring rain, and it’s somewhere around the Mediterranean coast of Egypt at the turn of the century – that is, the turn from the first century of the common era to the second. Aziraphale is unhappy, and he is even unhappier about the fact that he is unhappy. He shouldn’t be unhappy; by all rights, if all is as it says on the tin, he should be downright ecstatic. He has just received a missive from Heaven, congratulating him on his part in – well, something. Something he had no part in, something he is glad he had no part in.

He’s unsure how much he can blame on Heaven and how much blame he has to take on himself, but he knows it shouldn’t have taken seventy years for him to get this letter. That is Heaven’s fault – the bureaucracy of it all, the inefficiency, it’s frankly Kafkaesque. But the other part, the part concerning what he’s been doing for those seventy years, that’s on him. He reads over the message again, because it’s the only thing he can do, right now, to process everything that’s happened.

_The Following Communication Is Intended For Reception By The Principality Aziraphale._

Off to a great start, he thinks. It probably took them a full year to write that sentence.

_Aziraphale: The Department Of Human Religious Affairs Extends Its Professional Regards Concerning The Events In Jerusalem On The Fourteenth Of Nisan In The Four Thousand Thirty-Sixth Year. The Significance And Benefits Of This Development Cannot Be Overstated. Due In Part To Your Efforts Word Of The Almighty Will Spread Quickly With Little Interference. This Martyrdom Is Advantageous To All._

To all? Aziraphale scoffs. Sure, advantageous to all, except perhaps the man who was unrighteously murdered. And the people who loved him. How is that fair? Aziraphale shakes the thought out of his head, reminds himself that it doesn’t have to be fair, so long as it’s Heaven’s will. It’s ineffable. He is beginning to be sick of the word, a bit.

_Your Work Will Be Rewarded. An Official Commendation Is Forthcoming. Continue Your Ministrations On Earth In This Manner. We Will Be In Touch If The Necessity Arises._

Not even a _Please,_ Aziraphale notes with a sigh.

_Dictated But Not Read By The Archangel Zadkiel._

That’s the best part, he decides, that Zadkiel sent this. _Zadkiel, the Angel of Mercy,_ wanted to congratulate him for his part in the murder of an innocent man. Because it advanced the party line.

It is a harsh reality to accept, that Heaven wouldn’t have wanted Aziraphale to save the man even if he could have, that Heaven is _pleased_ with Aziraphale for the very thing he considers to be one of his greatest failures. They don’t care about that single human life, or any single human life, and Aziraphale has always known this, but it hits him now with a force that resonates in his bones.

It’s been two hours since he received the letter, and he’s read it fifty-four times, memorized it, recited it aloud to himself, mumbled it under his breath, read it again. For the first time in his long, long life, Aziraphale well and truly questions the Ineffable Plan. He doesn’t have any big plans for rebellion or insurrection, he isn’t quite so put out as to denounce Heaven entirely, but he is, for the first time, consciously doubting. This feeling is genuine, but it is also a convenient way for Aziraphale to avoid admitting what he has to do now.

It doesn’t work for long. Within an hour of his fifty-sixth reading, he tucks the letter into a pocket, packs a bag, and hits the road. It’s a foolish, impulsive decision, of the sort he so rarely makes, and it gives him a small thrill to be doing it.

The larger part of his energy, though, is spent worrying about how he will be received. It’s been seventy years of painful guilt and profound loneliness for him, but he can’t help wondering whether it hasn’t been better, for Crowley. Better without Aziraphale around, thwarting his wiles, blaming him for everything that goes wrong, shooting him disapproving glares at every opportunity. Perhaps Crowley walks about whistling a cheery tune every time he thinks of that day; perhaps he doesn’t regret it at all, while Aziraphale regrets it more than anything.

Perhaps, Aziraphale thinks, this is past the point of no return now. Perhaps, if he had done this twenty years ago, or fifty, it would have been salvageable, but now it’s impossible. And he’d wanted to, the entire time, he’d yearned to fix it, but his stubborn pride and his unyielding morality kept him at a distance. Kept him alone.

It was his fault. He gets himself used to saying it aloud: “It was my fault.” He crafts a speech in his head, a beautifully scripted monologue about his making assumptions and his not trusting and his refusing to listen and his inability to empathize. He’s had seventy years of distance to cool his initial rage, and his recent, abrupt disillusionment toward Heaven, and he understands it now, he thinks. Understands why he was wrong, why Crowley was so upset with him.

Because Crowley didn't have anything to do with the crucifixion, either, of course he didn't. And Aziraphale kicks himself for ever thinking otherwise, and again for not coming to his senses sooner, and again just for good measure. Crowley would never have done anything of the sort, and Aziraphale knows this, and he knew it back then, too, but he let his emotions cloud his judgment. Of course Crowley didn't do this: Crowley doesn't _kill_ people.

If something got out of hand, maybe. If Crowley started a rumor that built into a conspiracy that transformed into a witch hunt, it could end badly. It's bound to happen sometimes, and Aziraphale has had his share of mishaps, ones that ended in a lot more than one death. So, he thinks, even if Crowley had a small part in the action leading up to the event, it wasn't his fault.

It wasn't Crowley's fault.

And Crowley has known that for the entirety of these seventy years; he's had so much time to process Aziraphale's behavior, so much time to decide that maybe it was truly unforgivable. Aziraphale doesn't need to be forgiven, he needs to admit that he was wrong. But he hopes to be forgiven, hopes against hope, because he misses Crowley. He misses Crowley like a cloud misses a raindrop as it falls, and if he finds him just to lose him again, he doesn't know what he will do next.

But in any case, the angel would not be himself if he let that nagging worry put him off of his task. He carries on.

* * *

The singular event in Jerusalem on the fourteenth of Nisan in the four thousand thirty-sixth year was an altogether dismal affair for Aziraphale. He watched the whole thing, because he felt it was his responsibility to not shy away from it. He felt an obligation to stick it out until the end, and he did. It was the least he could do, compared to what Yeshua went through.

And maybe that was why he was in such a state, why he was so lacking in reason when he saw Crowley the next day. Maybe he was mentally and emotionally burnt out from witnessing his friend’s slow death, and maybe he needed somebody to blame. Crowley, for his part, was almost cavalier about it at first, which only infuriated Aziraphale even more.

There was no conversation to be had: Aziraphale skipped straight to accusing, and that was his mistake. That was one of his many mistakes. When Aziraphale got accusatory, Crowley got defensive, and his defensiveness was enough to convince the angel of his guilt.

Crowley said “Hello,” and clapped a friendly hand on Aziraphale’s shoulder.

Aziraphale said “Don’t touch me,” and it all went downhill from there. He said a lot more, without letting Crowley get a word in edgewise. He said “How could you do this?” and “I hope you’re proud of yourself.” and “You can’t even begin to fathom the pain you’ve caused, can you?” followed by an especially venomous “That’s if you can feel anything at all.”

He didn’t say “I trusted you.” He didn’t say “I thought you were different.” He didn’t say “This hurts, because if you’re capable of something like this, then what does that mean for me?” He didn’t say anything that might betray to Crowley that he felt the wound deep in his heart, not just as an angel bound to do Good, but as a man whose best friend had let him down. And he didn’t give Crowley a chance to explain that he had not, in fact, let him down.

Crowley didn’t deny it. He didn’t think he had to, he didn’t think Aziraphale _really_ blamed him. He thought the angel was blowing off steam the way he did sometimes, that he would come to his senses in a few minutes or hours, and he wouldn’t admit he was wrong, but he would go back to pretending it hadn’t happened, and that was usually enough for Crowley to do the same. So he didn’t deny it.

Instead, he said “I don’t know why this is such an issue for you.” and “We both know he wasn’t Her son.” and “People die all the time, angel. People get executed all the time.” and “I know you liked Yeshua, I know you were attached, but you have got to calm down.” That was a mistake on his part, but he couldn’t have known how big a mistake it was.

When Aziraphale left, he gave no indication that he was planning to go to Egypt. He gave no indication that he was planning to stay there indefinitely. Crowley thought he would see him again, the next day or the next week, thought Aziraphale would get over it rather quickly. Nevertheless, when Aziraphale left, Crowley shed his composure and cried himself to sleep.

Of course, Crowley couldn’t just accept that Aziraphale was gone and move on. He spent three months charming and bribing information out of people who may have seen the angel, reaching out with his supernatural senses to see if he could feel him, and in one particularly humiliating incident, slithering around in the Sinai Peninsula, tasting the air on the off chance that he could smell him.

When he finally found Aziraphale, settled and apparently comfortable in Alexandria, he left it at that, turned around and returned to Jerusalem without so much as knocking on the angel’s door. If he was happy here, if he was safe, Crowley could handle that. If Aziraphale left because he wanted to, because he was angry or because he needed a change of scenery, if he wanted to be away from Crowley for a time, it was upsetting, but he could handle it.

So he went home and waited. He went back to Jerusalem and he kept his place of residence, wanting to make it easy for the angel to find him, and he waited seventy years for Aziraphale to change his mind and come back.

* * *

Aziraphale isn’t sure, when he finds himself within the walls of Jerusalem, if the strong vibrato of his blood is due to his nerves or if it’s his essence reacting to the sensation of Crowley’s proximity. He hopes it’s the latter, wants to believe that he’s not so sentimentally human that he shakes out of his skin at the thought of seeing Crowley again. Sensing Crowley’s aura is easy, he sticks out in a city like this, and Aziraphale homes in on him within minutes, following a feeling that transcends physical limits, but that he still tends to describe as a sort of spicy smell, if the subject ever comes up.

It’s not until he’s standing at the door, after knocking, that he begins to second-guess himself. He doesn’t have much time to mull over his doubts, as Crowley opens the door faster than Aziraphale would have thought possible. It occurs to him vaguely, distantly, that Crowley could feel his approach just as easily as Aziraphale could sense him, and that he had likely been waiting for Aziraphale to show up. Somehow, Crowley still looks surprised to see him.

“Oh,” Aziraphale says, wide-eyed and breathless. “Hello.”

Crowley opens his mouth to speak, chokes on air, clears his throat. “Hi,” he says, quiet, as if he’s afraid he’ll scare the angel off.

“Can I come in?” Aziraphale hates the way the words sound coming out of his mouth, hates asking Crowley for anything at all.

Crowley steps to the side and ushers Aziraphale inside, sits him down, brings him some wine. He takes a seat as well, an odd distance away from the angel. Fidgeting with a thread on his shirt, he gnaws at his lip and fixes his eyes on the floor.

“I…” All of Aziraphale’s carefully thought out apologies fall through the cracks, leaving him all but speechless. “I…” he says again, faltering, before squaring his shoulders and pushing through it. “I need to ask you something,” he finishes lamely.

Crowley nods and murmurs, “Okay,” and then when Aziraphale doesn’t respond he says louder, “Go ahead.”

“Can you… will you… tell me what happened?”

Crowley can’t resist a bitter urge, mutters, “Seemed like you thought you knew what happened.” He shakes his head, running a hand through his hair, and turns to properly look at Aziraphale’s face. “You’re going to believe me? If I tell you?”

“Yes,” answers Aziraphale without hesitation.

“Okay…” he begins, then takes a deep breath, swallows hard, and continues, speaking quickly. “Angel, it was just people. People being people, killing people. We didn’t have anything to do with it. I know he was your friend, and I wish it didn’t happen the way it did, but we can’t save everyone. I mean, I – I can hardly get away with saving _anyone,_ unless I make up for it somehow, but I think the trouble he was causing for the state might have stirred up enough wrath to cover it up, if I had been able to save him, but I – I couldn’t.”

Crowley takes another deep breath and watches Aziraphale’s face, expecting a response. The angel simply looks back at him, and he’s sitting closer now, having moved surreptitiously while Crowley spoke. The silence is long and ringing, and Crowley can’t take it, so he keeps talking.

“It’s just…” he begins, then cuts off, unsure what else he can say. “I feel awful, I really do,” he continues, “that I couldn’t help. I should have done something, I should have said something, I should have… I don’t know.” Crowley looks curiously at the angel, watching him move closer, closer, slowly but surely.

“But…” Crowley swallows nervously. “But I didn’t do it, I didn’t, you know that, right? You wouldn’t be here if you didn’t know that, right?” Aziraphale still says nothing, even as Crowley stares at him, brow furrowed, eyes swimming in doubt. “I haven’t… I haven’t done my job, since you’ve left. Been making a lot of excuses, to my superiors, but I thought… it didn’t seem fair, me having free run of the Holy Land, just because you were… gone…”

Crowley trails off again, registering with sudden surprise how frightfully close Aziraphale’s face is to his own. He lets his eyes wander the angel’s face, searching for some indication of what he could be thinking, why he’s so quiet, why he’s so close.

Aziraphale, after four thousand years, hasn’t quite gotten the hang of regular breathing, but his breath comes in short gasps and pants now, his eyes wet and shining. He reaches up, hesitant but determined, and wraps a hand around the back of Crowley’s neck, pulling him in until their lips connect ever so lightly. When Crowley doesn’t recoil, as Aziraphale had expected he might, the angel tightens his grip, pulls him in deeper, kisses him just a little bit harder, and then breaks away, separating from the demon by a few inches to look at his face.

Crowley licks his lips and speaks breathlessly. “What was that for?”

“I’m sorry,” Aziraphale says quickly.

“You don’t have to be,” Crowley answers.

“No,” says Aziraphale, closing his eyes, shaking his head, “no, I mean, I’m sorry for… before. That was an apology.”

Crowley nods. “Oh,” he whispers. “It was a good apology. I think all apologies should be like that.”

The angel ignores his flippant attitude, moving to hold Crowley’s face firmly between his palms. “I mean it,” he says, his voice low and sincere. “I mean it, I am sorry. I was wrong, I was so wrong, I was so awful to you. I wouldn’t blame you if you could never forgive me, if you told me to leave and never come back. I just needed you to know that I’m sorry.” He takes a deep, shaky inhale, bites his lip to hold back a quiver.

“I don’t know…” Aziraphale presses on, voice wavering. “I don’t know how, or… if I could even begin to make it up to you. There is simply no excuse for the way I behaved, the way I treated you. You’d never done anything to deserve it.” He moves his hands from the demon’s cheeks down to rest on his knees, his gaze still firmly glued on Crowley’s eyes. “You’d never done anything to make me think you would have done… that. You… Crowley, you are much better than I have ever given you credit for.”

Crowley nods, breathing low and steady. “I can’t say you’re forgiven just like that,” he says slowly, “but I’d like you to stick around and keep trying.” Seeing Aziraphale’s thoughtful look, he adds, “You could try that first technique again, see if that works.”

Aziraphale quirks his head to the side, looking puzzled, until Crowley’s fingers find their way into the angel’s messy curls, and something clicks inside his mind. He fumbles to grab for the demon’s face once more, meeting him in a crushing kiss, a deep and desperate thing of passion. He licks at Crowley’s lips until the demon opens his mouth invitingly, a low moan cutting off with a hitched breath.

Seventy years of separation has made the two of them just so much fonder, and they explore each other with abandon, hands running along the lines of their faces, their shoulders, tangling in their hair. Crowley wraps his arms around Aziraphale’s neck, and the angel responds by placing both hands firmly on his waist. They are lost in each other for an indeterminate amount of time, in no rush at all, tasting each other and breathing each other in, catching up on all they’ve missed.

When Crowley pulls away, Aziraphale lets out a small whine, holding the demon’s waist tighter, pulling him closer. There is an almost imperceptible space between them, and when he speaks, his lips brush against Crowley’s.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers fervently, “I’m sorry, I’m sorry.”

“I know,” murmurs Crowley.

Aziraphale shakes his head, bites his lip again. “No, no, you don’t,” he says, “you don’t know how sorry I am. I need to show you, I need to prove it to you.” He drops his head, resting his forehead on Crowley’s shoulder. “I’ll do anything,” he mumbles, “to make you understand. What do you want me to do? I’ll do anything.”

Crowley moves his hands to the angel’s shoulders, pushes him back gently, puts a hand under his chin and tilts his face up. He looks meaningfully into Aziraphale’s face, twisted into a wretched pout. “Just…” He pauses, to make sure Aziraphale is listening, to catch his eyes in an intense stare. “Please don’t leave again,” he whispers.

“Don’t… _don’t_ leave?” Aziraphale looks at him, confused.

Crowley nods fervently. “Angel, you were so wrong, and so out of line, and I was upset with you, I was. I was,” he repeats with more emphasis. “But… you being gone was so much worse. It was so much worse, having to be here without you for so long. Please don’t leave again.”

Aziraphale frowns deeply, the lines of his face taking on a life of their own. “We’ve been apart for much longer, before,” he says blankly.

“That was just business,” Crowley whines. “Just happens that way sometimes, with what we do. But this was different. This was… you _left_ me.” He sniffs, turning his face away. “You left me, and you didn’t say anything, and you… I didn’t know if you were ever coming back.”

“Okay,” murmurs Aziraphale, “okay, I won’t. I won’t leave again. Not even for business, not ever.”

Crowley laughs, a small, wet chuckle. “Don’t make promises you can’t keep.”

“I mean it,” says the angel. “You asked me not to leave, and I will not leave you, not until you get sick of me and beg me to go away.”

“Well, that’s not going to happen,” Crowley says. He breathes in deeply through his nose, relishing Aziraphale’s scent, cinnamon and sea air and fertile soil. “I’ve missed you, angel.”

Aziraphale grabs the demon by the shoulders, reels him in, pulls him close to his chest. Crowley melts into him, snaking arms around the angel’s thick torso, shifting his legs to the side so he can lean fully into the embrace. Aziraphale begins to card fingers through Crowley’s hair, rubbing gently at his scalp, and Crowley’s eyes flutter closed as he lets out a contented sigh. They stay this way for hours, reacquainting themselves with easy, comfortable touch, reminding themselves how it feels to be near each other once more. Crowley falls asleep inadvertently, and Aziraphale continues to hold him tightly, protectively, continues to run soothing fingers along his skin, continues to think of a thousand more ways to apologize once the demon wakes up.


End file.
